


Tribal Ink and Flowers

by Withmyteeth



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Frottage, M/M, tramp stamp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-29 04:14:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11432943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Withmyteeth/pseuds/Withmyteeth
Summary: "Encouraged, Hanzo continues moving his hand, getting bold enough to feel the muscles in McCree’s back once he’s satisfactorily memorized the tattoo’s shape. His hands are on fairly safe territory, not straying to anything below the (obnoxious) belt (buckle). With McCree’s faint moans and satisfied sighs, though, someone could swear they were doing something dirtier than they are."





	Tribal Ink and Flowers

**Author's Note:**

> Alt title: Jack Now Gets 40% of Jesse McCree
> 
> I'm sure you've all seen [this beautiful tumblr post](http://vimeddiee.tumblr.com/post/148068921696/young-mccree-seems-like-a-tramp-stamp-kind-of-guy) and my friend Cain and I were talking about it. I don't even play Overwatch, why have I fallen for the cowboy?
> 
> Title is from some very angry people that apparently hate tramp stamps, who said that they're usually something with flowers or with a tribal design.

It is a sweltering, blistering day. The sun is out full force, there re hardly any trees to take cover from, and the air conditioning has been dropped out a window. (“Almost got it! Just had t’ grab the strap a little faster.”) 

One Shimada Hanzo is melting. His skin is literally covered in sweat, and he has to dab at his forehead every couple minutes to make sure the salty liquid isn’t going to get in his eyes. McCree had commented that Hanzo should look at himself in the mirror and glare at the sweat, implying the sweat would have evaporated at the look. Hanzo had, in turn, offered a look that had McCree nervously chuckling before the cowboy had hastily left. 

They are in one of Overwatch’s safehouses, hiding after the headquarters had been infiltrated. Each member had been paired off with another and sent away. Somehow, through luck or misfortune, Hanzo had been graced with the wonder that is McCree. Which isn’t bad, per se. Hanzo had recently started to accept McCree’s efforts to becoming comrades, and McCree had been treating Hanzo as if they’ve been friends for years. They occasionally drank together at night, nothing but the moon to light up their way as bad joke after bad joke passed from McCree’s lips. Hanzo had even agreed to teach McCree how to use a bow and arrow, before this whole debacle. 

Now, it seems all plans have to be put on pause so Hanzo could turn into a puddle. 

Thoughts of going to find a store somewhere relatively nearby and get a new damned air conditioner are pushed to the back of Hanzo’s mind as McCree walks in, dripping wet. His shirt, a white t-shirt with the words ‘I’d Flex but I Like This Shirt’, clings to his skin. Hanzo could see the way it outlines his stomach and where the material is see-through on his chest. His pants are even worse, too loose and sagging on the areas where they aren’t stuck to him. (Fortunately or otherwise, a very specific area is one of those distinctly outlined.)

Hanzo only stops his staring when he hears an amused chuckle, and then his gaze shoots up to where McCree is smirking at him. Water- Hanzo can only hope it’s water and not that McCree has managed to produce enough sweat to bathe in- drips from his hair onto his face, traveling in a few rivulets on his nose and to his lips.

“See somethin’ ya like, Darlin’?” The ‘Darlin’ always felt capitalized, for whatever reason. Hanzo focuses on this rather than his rising blush. 

“Did you forget to take your clothes off when you showered?” McCree chuckles again, taking his hat off to shake his head and spray water everywhere. Hanzo resists the urge to waste energy glaring. 

“Naw, I found a little river. Figured I’d come see if ya wanted in on the action.” Hanzo could reject the offer and melt or accept and be graced with some relief. The choice isn’t hard. 

They’re off quickly, not bothering to bring anything but two towels. They shouldn’t need them, the heat still stifling, but McCree had insisted, and Hanzo had just wanted him to hurry. 

Halfway there, McCree stops in the middle of his tracks, glaring up at the sun. Hanzo opens his mouth to ask him what the hell was going on, but he’s beaten to the punch. 

“Listen, I reckon you’re all comfortable with your tit hanging out and all, but it is too fuckin’ hot to keep this on.” 

Which is all the warning Hanzo got before McCree strips off his shirt, keeping the hat on. He looks ridiculous, and Hanzo should tell him this. He’s going to tell him that. He swears.

But the bit of color on McCree’s lower back calls his attention before he can. McCree has a tattoo? 

Said tattoo is a gun pressed up against another that’s the same, just reflected. Above the guns is the word ‘gunslinger’, in a font that is eerily reminiscent of a saloon in an old western movie. 

“What is _that_?” McCree shifts, Hanzo not bothering to look up from where he’s staring at the ink, watching the movement of his skin and his hips.

“What- Ah, my tramp stamp! I forgot all ‘bout it, honestly. One guy I slept with, said I was a real gunslinger after handling his ‘weapon’, and it kinda stuck. Got it tatted pretty close after that.” McCree makes a noise indicating he doesn’t think the story is that interesting, but Hanzo manages to focus on the double entendre, and the fact that McCree had slept with a male. 

Obviously, Hanzo’s not blind to the way McCree flirts with all the members of Overwatch, but that’s teasing. Something jokingly said with no expectation of a return comment. He never expected that McCree was truly as relaxed with his sexual partners. Or maybe he prefers males? Hanzo isn’t about to ask at this moment, mouth dry and unable to do so. 

He swallows and forces himself to speak, anyway, not wanting to give too much of himself away. “It fits you, cowboy.” 

They walk the rest of the way in relative silence, McCree humming a tune and Hanzo peeling his eyes away from the way his hips bounce and shake the guns. 

He does not think about McCree handling his gun.

\-----

The river is blessedly cold, as Hanzo finds out as soon as he removes his leg covers. McCree is still shirtless, but he sits across from Hanzo, blocking the view of the tattoos. (Hanzo doesn’t know whether to feel relieved or slightly disappointed at that, before he makes up his mind that being disappointed was ridiculous. McCree is his _friend_.) 

It’s quiet between them. Hanzo finds it calming, but apparently McCree has other thoughts. 

“This silence is killin’ me, Darlin’. Ain’t ya got _somethin’_ on yer mind?” The tattoo, the heat, the way the water wrapped soothingly. The latter two were safe topics, as dull as they could be. However, instead of answering with either of them, Hanzo blurts out: 

“I did not know you were into men.” Hanzo feels himself freeze, ready to apologize for his blunt way of prying, but McCree breaks out into loud guffaws. The embarrassment shifts into vague annoyance. Hanzo is not fond of being laughed at, even if he arguably deserves it.

Minutes pass, the laughter fading from loud to soundless tremors as McCree runs out of air to produce the offending noise. Hanzo crosses his arms across his chest and looks away. He feels like he’s pouting, but the alternative is to get out of the water and leave, and he’s not ready to evict himself. 

When McCree finally finishes, even wiping away a tear that most definitely wasn’t there, he turns to Hanzo with a grin on his lips that promised nothing but trouble.

“Ya shoulda seen yer face! Priceless.” Asshole. “It ain’t exactly a secret, but you haven’t asked me before. You ain’t gonna get uncomfortable sharing the house with me, right? ‘Cause if haven’t jumped your bones-”

“I know. I trust that you can control yourself. It just came as a surprise. As did the tattoo.” And apparently Hanzo is mentioning it. He’s going to have to find his skills of restraint and control from wherever they hid themselves. But first, he has to figure out why McCree is looking as if he just had a major breakthrough. 

“That’s what this is about! Fuck me sideways, I’m guessing you like the tat?” What was that?

“It’s not that I like it-” McCree is moving closer, leaning into Hanzo’s space. He has really nice eyes, Hanzo notes after taking a quick glance at the approaching lips. 

“Wanna touch it?” There are so many innuendos in that sentence, but Hanzo knows exactly what McCree means. He knows much less what he’s doing when he nods his head hesitantly. (He can blame the heat if he’s ever questioned.)

That nod is how Hanzo finds himself with a lapful of McCree, the cowboy facing away from him. His body heat isn’t appreciated, but is easily forgiven as Hanzo ghosts a finger over the design and McCree shivers. 

Encouraged, Hanzo continues moving his hand, getting bold enough to feel the muscles in McCree’s back once he’s satisfactorily memorized the tattoo’s shape. His hands are on fairly safe territory, not straying to anything below the (obnoxious) belt (buckle). With McCree’s faint moans and satisfied sighs, though, someone could swear they were doing something dirtier than they are. 

And by someone, Hanzo means his cock, which has taken an interest in the proceedings.

He thinks of things like what’s in Junkrat’s hair, the mechanics of archery, Morrison in general, to calm himself, but none of them seem to be working. Especially since, apparently contrite with Hanzo’s stilled hands, McCree has taken it upon himself to press into Hanzo’s lap. Hanzo can’t help but let out a moan before cutting himself short. McCree turns himself around anyway, one leg on either side of Hanzo’s hips. 

“Is it the tat?” Hanzo could agree just so they wouldn’t have to continue this conversation any longer than necessary, but he’s not going to lie to himself and McCree right now. Not when he can see where this could be heading.

“The tattoo is part of it, but the other part is the attractive man moaning in my lap.” McCree’s smile is shyer than Hanzo’s used to seeing on him. It makes him look softer, even as his hardness makes itself known against Hanzo’s stomach. 

“Mm, ‘d you mind terribly if I kissed ya?” Hanzo’s heart flutters. He leans forward slightly, tipping his head back.

“I would mind more if you didn’t.” McCree kisses him slowly at first, hands coming up to caress Hanzo’s face, the metal one colder than the flesh one. As one of them shifts, to get better access, to get more comfortable, something, the kiss heats up. They part their lips, let their hands wander, and McCree doesn’t stop moving his damned hips. 

Hanzo cums fairly quickly, McCree still going strong. Putting his mouth to McCree’s neck, Hanzo bites down gently, his thoughts going to helping McCree reach his release. 

Winding a hand between the two of them, Hanzo asks the crook of McCree’s neck for permission to touch. He gets something that sounds suspiciously like a whimper as a response. 

“You can, but I’m damned close.” McCree isn’t kidding, throwing his head back and shouting after two strokes. Which is a huge stroke for Hanzo’s ego, but he puts it aside in favor of watching McCree go boneless in his lap. 

“Ah, that was fun. Too damn hot, though, next time we do this we gotta have the AC.” The next time is a promise, one that Hanzo promises back with a chaste kiss on McCree’s lips. Too bad they just came, because McCree’s next words almost have him ready to go again. “Maybe you can cum on the stamp next time.” 

(They get a new air conditioner within the week. Hanzo enjoys marking up the stamp, almost too much. Their activities make it as hot as when the air conditioner was gone, so might as well have fun with it.)


End file.
